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But it was damned near impossible. The man got under my skin in a way no one else could or ever had, and I couldn’t figure out why that was.

I’d been around haters all my life. Guys on the high school football team who envied my stats. Classmates who begrudged my grades. Friends jealous of my family’s money and power. Teachers who resented my father’s pull. Girlfriends who got angry when I no longer wanted to be with them. A neighbor kid who always tried to one-up me with a fancier car and more expensive gear.

None of them had ever moved into my brain and camped out there like they owned the place.

Not like Elliot Vaughn.

It took me approximately thirty more seconds to get my shit together.

Fuck this. Fuck Vaughn telling me what to do.

I needed this money, and I was going to fucking get it, regardless of what he said.

I smoothed my shirt, stretched my head from side to side, and headed right back into the Pit to place my bet.

Elliot Vaughn could go fuck himself.

12

VAUGHN

I left McNeely and raced back inside to yank Wes Buchanan out of the cage.

The fact that he had the flu and I hadn’t noticed it was a true testament to how fucking distracted I was. He was literally listing to one side just before Avila warned everyone to finish placing their bets.

“You,” I said, pointing at him. “Out.”

Wes’s eyes widened, pleading, and he shook his head. “No way, man. I need this money.”

I hesitated. On the one hand, I got it. The poor kid wanted to make enough money to go home for the holidays. But on the other, this crowd had already suffered through one unfair fight tonight, and I couldn’t allow it to happen again. Besides, Wes could get seriously hurt if he fought like this.

I shook my head. “Come back when you’re not about to puke in my ring. Go.”

Avila glanced over and put his hand over the mic. “What’s up, Vaughnie?”

“I’m taking Wes’s place. He’s sick. Make the announcement, and give everyone a chance to change their bets.”

He blinked at me slowly, like an owl. “Fuck. Okay. Shit.”

At least he knew better than to question my decision.

Jack, on the other hand, came over to argue. “Wes is fine, man. Took some meds and stuff. What’s a little cough?”

“An unfair disadvantage, for one,” I said, holding back from punching the guy. “Did you announce him as healthy? Pretty sure you did. That means when he passes out or pukes before the bell even rings, people are going to come for us for lying.”

He rolled his eyes, but I ignored him, shooting a text to Dalton to let him know what was happening.

Then I moved to the back room to change.

When I came out, the old lights and cigarette smoke cast everything in a hazy yellow light. Sweat gleamed on skin. Beer sloshed in plastic cups. Money exchanged hands like water flowing hard and fast over a cliff. The Pit thrummed with energy, always hungry on a Friday night during the school year.

“Morales is ready,” Avila added quietly. “Get warmed up. Lotta money riding on you now.”

Of course there was. There was always money riding on me. It was why Dalton usually saved me for the last fight of each month, to build up the anticipation.

I rolled my shoulders once, feeling the tension lodged there. I hadn’t stretched or warmed up. Hadn’t wrapped my hands yet. Hadn’t let myself slide into that particular headspace where pain becomes background noise and the only thing that matters is the next hit. Right now, my headspace was anything but focused and calm.

Fucking McNeely.